


No One Else But You

by doctorbuffypotterlock79



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-14 17:53:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18953029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorbuffypotterlock79/pseuds/doctorbuffypotterlock79
Summary: Spoilers for the S11 Reunion. Brock deals with the aftermath of the reunion and comes to terms with his feelings.





	No One Else But You

**Author's Note:**

> There are so many Branjie fics I want to write after the reunion, and this one came out first. I lowkey wrote this while bored at work. It is angsty, but I promise there's a happy ending! Comments and feedback are always welcome!

***

It is a month before the reunion airs, and for the fourth straight night, Brock finds himself staring at the ceiling. 

His total hours of sleep for the past three nights is a single-digit number, and he feels that number more each day. But he welcomes the exhaustion. When you can barely stay awake during the day, you can’t think of what an asshole you are. You can’t think of the Puerto Rican man you’re missing. You can’t think of how you threw away the best thing you ever had. The exhaustion overtakes any other feeling he could possibly have, numbs him to the world. And numb is what he needs right now. 

He peeks over at the clock. 3:27. He sighs and turns on the TV. No way he’s getting back to sleep tonight. Not after what he’s done. 

He had gone and fucked up the first, the best, relationship he had ever had. Because he just couldn’t commit. Because he needed his independence. Because he was just too scared. And in a month, they would have to spill it on television. 

_How’s your freedom and independence now, Brock?_

It’s another sleepless night. 

***

23 days before the reunion. He barely sleeps, barely eats. He exists on autopilot, dragging himself through the day mechanically. They’re still great friends, still comment on social media and tweet at each other. They even text almost every day and it could be enough. It should be enough, because that’s what Brock wanted. He wanted to be friends, didn’t want to be locked into a relationship. He wanted freedom. And he can convince himself that friends is enough. But when he ends each night in tears, regretting what he gave up and wanting it back, he knows it’s not enough. It never will be. 

The world has lost its color. It just exists around him, and he just exists in it. Everything has become meaningless. 

_Friends. That’s what you wanted. You couldn’t be ready, couldn’t give up your freedom for someone that wonderful. If he wasn’t enough for you, do you think anyone else ever will be?_

His beating heart is the only sign he’s even still alive. 

Maybe it would be easier if he had no heart at all. 

***

Two weeks before the reunion and his autopilot fails. He just can’t do it anymore. He stays awake until he collapses with exhaustion, shoves tasteless food down his throat only to throw it up hours later. 

He’s curled up on the bathroom floor after throwing up yet again. His thumb hovers over the name. The name that meant everything to him, the name that allowed him to finally love someone. One push is all it would take. He puts the phone down and sobs. 

He’s not sure how much longer he can do this. 

***

One week later and he finally makes the call. 

His heart pounds and his hands shake from the anxiety, the fear. He never thought he’d be the type to call an ex crying, but that’s exactly what he does. He cries and cries and José listens patiently. He begs for another chance, says he’s ready this time, he really is. 

“I thought you needed to be free, Brock. That you just weren’t ready to commit,” José replies coolly, and Brock knows he deserves every amount of ice in José’s tone. They interact online and text frequently, but the fact is just hearing José’s voice is enough to break him. 

“I was wrong. I really think I can this time. I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and I want to do this with you. I love you, boo. I always have,” he’s crying now, so hard he can barely get out the words. José is silent on the other end. 

“I want to believe you. I really do. And I still have feelings for you, I can’t lie. But Brock, I can’t get hurt again. I just can’t. So you really need to think about this and talk to me when you’re feeling better. Just know what you want and tell me when you know it. I have to be sure about you, Brock, and you calling me like this isn’t helping. I’m sorry.” 

“José, wait-”

“I gotta go. See you at the reunion”

Brock thinks he hears a sob on the other end before the line goes dead. His mind is reeling. All he’s been doing the past few months is thinking. Thinking about how he messed up, how wrong he was, how much he wants José again. But he needs to do more. He needs to show José he’s real. 

But how? 

He feels sick. 

He kneels in front of the toilet, wishing he could throw it all up. Not just food, but everything. His regret, his fear, his anxiety, fuck, he’ll even throw up his heart while he’s at it. 

But nothing comes up. He hasn’t eaten in three days. 

He’s empty. 

 

***

The day after the reunion he reaches his breaking point. One day. One day since they told the world they were done, since he confessed his issues on television and acted like it wasn’t killing him. He thought he was over it all, thought he had moved on and was happy with being friends. But the reunion slashed right through the stitches and tore the wound back open, worse now than it was months ago. All this has proven is that he’s not over it. He’s not happy with just friends. 

He’s on 2 hours of sleep from the previous night. He wants to explode. His entire body is tense and exhausted. His head is pounding. His hands shake uncontrollably. 

He looks at his trembling hands with disgust and begins punching anything he can. The wall, the floors, the sink. Pain explodes in his hand, blood dripping all over the bathroom. His knuckles are instantly bruised deep purple. 

He relishes the pain. He earns the blood, the bruising, the swelling, each sensation tearing through his mental anguish and replacing it with physical pain. 

He lets the blood flow. 

***

It is five days after the reunion when he knows he has to act. 

He thinks on José’s words and knows he must show the younger man that he really can do this. He knows what he has to do, and spends the day getting ready for it. 

He knows where José is staying for a show, and this could be his last chance. He cleans himself up the best he can, but he can’t hide his exhaustion or the weight he’s lost. He shaves, fixes his hair, puts on clean clothes, forces himself to eat something and fights to keep it down. 

Three hours later, he’s at the hotel. Brock shifts the bag to his bad hand and knocks with his good one. A bewildered José opens the door seconds later, expression unreadable. The mask cracks into concern when he gets a good look at Brock. 

“What the fuck happened to you? You like like shit,” José says, and even in Brock’s foggy mind, he registers that José sounds really worried. He takes the bag and leads him into the hotel room. Brock gets a proper look at himself in the mirror, considering how he must really look to someone who hasn’t seen him. 

A thin frame suffering from weight loss that he didn’t need. A deathly pale and sick-looking face, with deep purple bags under his eyes. Knuckles still a little swollen, littered with scabbed-over cuts, and bruised a dark blue. And then there’s the things that no one can see. The fact that he has to stand up slowly because doing it too fast makes him dizzy. The way his vision just blurs throughout the day. How hard it is for him to focus on anything other than José and his own mistakes. How he can’t keep down much besides water and toast, but can’t bring himself to eat anything else either. 

“Sit down,” José orders. “You look like you’re about to drop dead.” There is concern in his eyes and he sees that Brock is sitting in a chair before he allows himself to sit. 

“I- I just want to talk,” Brock starts. 

“So talk,” José answers. He’s not exactly kind, but he’s not overly harsh either, and Brock takes some hope. Maybe he has a chance.

“I messed up.”

“Hell yeah you did.” 

“I-I’m so sorry. I don’t think I can ever really apologize for what I did to you. I was scared. I’d never been with anyone before and I was scared and I just wasn’t ready to commit. I didn’t want to hurt you. Somewhere in my mind I thought that it was better, fairer, I guess, to let you go if I didn’t think I could give you what you deserve,” he explains. 

He pauses, taking a deep breath, ignoring the butterflies in his stomach. “And you deserve so much. You deserve everything you’ve ever wanted. And I want to tell you that I’ve been thinking about you and our relationship nonstop. And I’m ready to give you everything. I know I wanted to be free, but this past month I’ve realized that freedom doesn’t mean a thing if I don’t have you. And there is no one else I would rather have than you. Baby, it’s you. It’s always been you, and no one else but you. So if you could somehow forgive me for being a giant asshole, I’m ready to commit to you. I’m ready to be yours and yours alone. I’m ready to give you romance. I’m ready to watch cheesy movies with you. To spend all day in bed with you and do nothing. To have breakfast and dance and kiss and all of it. I-I want it, José. I want it. I love you,” Brock finishes, not noticing the tears rolling down his cheeks until now. 

José still sits in the chair, tears in his eyes, but not saying anything. Brock stands up and reaches for the bag José had set on the bed. The butterflies in his stomach are waging war with each other and he almost loses his nerve. 

He digs through the bag and takes out the tiny notebook with the brown leather cover. He hands it to José, who stares at it, confused.

“You said you wanted a notebook,” Brock offers as explanation, and motions for José to open it. Inside, Brock had written down every single thing he loved about José. 

_Your laugh. The way you make me feel calm and safe. How kind you are. How funny you are. How you can read anyone for filth. Your passion for life. The way you make me laugh._

On and on it went. Brock watches as José’s mouth drops open and he begins to cry harder as he flips through the pages. 

“Brock,” José breathes. “This is...this…” he gets up from the chair and crashes into Brock, burying his face in the taller man’s chest. Brock just holds him, soaking up the feeling of José in his arms, a feeling he had desperately missed. 

“I love you,” Brock whispers. José finally removes himself from the hug. He steps back and looks up into Brock’s eyes. 

“You really want to do this?” José asks. 

“Absolutely.” 

“Me too. I love you,” José declares, grabbing Brock and pulling him down for a kiss. 

It is exactly the rom-com ending they deserve.


End file.
